Page 11 of The House That Held Her

But it's locked. Of course, it is.

I grab a stone and slam it against the old, thick padlock. The clang echoes across the clearing way too loudly. I freeze, listening. Nothing but the quiet lapping of water. Good. Another hit and the lock holds firm.

I yank the chest onto firmer ground, my muscles screaming. It's heavier than I thought, awkward and unbalanced. But I can't leave it here—not where anyone could stumble across it. With sheer will, I drag it back toward the shoreline, the chest scraping over roots and rocks, leaving a rough trail behind me.

When I finally reach the dock, Donny's still there, leaning against the side of the boat, chewing on a toothpick. His eyes widen as he catches sight of me, dragging the chest.

"What in the world is that?" he barks, straightening. "What are you doin' out here, lady?!"

I don't answer. Instead, I dig into my pocket and pull out another twenty, waving it in the air. "Help me get it into the boat."

Donny blinks but snatches the bill. "You're trouble, you know that?" Still, he jumps down, grabbing one side of the chest as I grip the other.

Together, we heave it into the boat with a heavy thud. The wood creaks under its weight, but it holds. We sit in silence as Donny starts the motor and steers us back across the water, the stillness only broken by the soft churn of the engine. I can feel Donny's eyes flicking between me and the chest, the questions hanging thick in the air—but he keeps his mouth shut. A lovely trait I won't soon forget about him.

When we dock, I hop out before he can say anything, hurrying up the dock toward the road. My VW Beetle is still hidden between the trees, its bright yellow paint nearly glowing against the green. I get in, throw it into reverse, and let it roll backward down the steep hill, arriving gently at the dock's edge.

I pop the hatch and jog back down. Donny's already got the chest halfway out of the boat, grumbling under his breath. We each take a side, heaving it toward the Beetle. As we lift it into the hatch, the car sinks a few inches under the weight, the suspension groaning in protest.

"If there's gold in there, you owe me a few nuggets," Donny mutters, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Thanks, Donny," I say, slamming the hatch closed. I hand him another twenty before sliding into the driver's seat.

I give him a quick wink. "You didn't see me today."

He tips his cap and returns the wink. "Wouldn't dream of it."

With that, I peel away, the weight of the chest pressing heavy in the back, but somehow, even heavier is the storm of questions now swirling in my head.

When the spires of Hawthorn Manor peek through the trees, I could cry with relief. Almost there. I drive my old yellow VW Beetle along the winding road, pulling alongside the incoming truck before swinging around and backing behind the manor.

I back the Beetle up to the door, the tires crunching over gravel as I ease it into place. The chest in the back shifts slightly with the car's movement, its weight pressing heavy against the hatch.

Glancing toward the front of the house, I see Walter still engrossed in directing the truck, his clipboard waving in the air. Good. I throw the car into park, jump out, and pop the hatch. With a grunt, I drag the chest out, its metal fittings scraping against the car's interior.

I haul it through the mudroom, every thud of wood against tile echoing like a siren in my ears. My heart races as I shut the back door behind me, the chest now safely inside, hidden from any wandering eyes.

The climb upstairs is brutal. The chest is incredibly awkward to carry myself, its rectangle shape awkward and punishing, the metal edges digging into my palms as I drag it step by agonizing step. I time each pull with the loud clatter and banging from the contractors below, using the cover of dropped tools and shouted instructions to muffle the scraping sounds echoing through the manor.

Sweat pours down my back, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I brace my foot against each step, yanking the chest upward. It slams into the risers with dull thuds, the old wood creaking beneath the weight. My arms burn, my hands slick with sweat, but I can't stop—not here, not where anyone could stumble across me.

The contractors shout something to Walter outside, and I seize the moment, heaving the chest up the last few steps just as a hammer strikes metal, masking the final crash. I barely make it to the landing before my legs give out, and I collapse beside it, my breath wild and uneven.

I hook my fingers under the rough metal fittings and drag it inch by inch down the hallway, each tug sending a dull thud through the old floorboards. With one final grunt, I reach my bedroom door and haul the chest inside. It scrapes loudly against the hardwood as I drag it into the center of the room. I kick the door shut behind me, the soft click of the latch sounding impossibly loud in the sudden stillness.

The chest sits there, muddy and ancient, like it belongs here. Like it's been waiting.

But I need the key.I found the chest through clues hidden in this house, so logically, the key is likely to be here, too. George Hawthorn wouldn't have buried it somewhere random. It would be concealed, just like the map.

I scan the room, my mind racing. My thoughts snap back to the map hidden under the living room floorboards. Could the key have been there, too? My stomach sinks. The contractors. The torn-up floor.

I bolt downstairs, every step a hollow thud echoing in my ears. The living room is stripped bare, the subfloor exposed, and the wooden boards are gone, hauled off as construction debris. My heart pounds as I dart to the nearest contractor, my voice rough and desperate.

"Where's the trash from the demolition?"

He barely glances up from his clipboard, jerking a thumb toward the driveway. "Dumpster out front."

I don't hesitate.

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